Joy Amidst the Junk

 We all collect junk, don't we?  Whether it's the remnants of a distant childhood or things handed down by parents that we would feel guilty parting with, the piles grow, the boxes collect more dust and after a while we virtually never pay a visit to these physical artifacts of our personal histories.  Sometimes we approach these objects with a clear mind and recognize that the vast majority of these collections are just "stuff" that not only are we not interested in but neither are our grown children who now busy collecting their own useless "stuff."

Having said this, it is still true that every now and then we run across something that makes us smile and permits us to relive some special moments from the distant past.  And, this happened to me recently when I discovered a story I had written about thirty years ago, a story I had written for a nephew of mine describing to him the introduction into our lives of our wonderful chocolate lab, Hoover.  Back then, the kids were quite young and Lily was still known as Betsy.  Oh yeah, this is a long time ago.  But, as I read the story and couldn't stop smiling I knew I wanted to share it again, this time hopefully with other dog owners who could very much relate to my tale.  I call it......

               The Life and Times of Hoover

As Snoopy might say, it was a dark and stormy night.  I had just returned from the relative balminess of Southern California, and shivered at being dumped in the freezing drizzle and sleet glazing the Virginia countryside.  I was in no mood for levity.  But, there we were - Aunt Betsy, Jesse, Alex and I - loaded into the new Mercury Villager about to procure one eight week old chocolate labrador puppy from the FantasyBottom Kennels in Catlett, Virginia - an hour from McLean deep in the rural muddiness of Virginia.  Everyone was gleeful in anticipation except the curmudgeon in the driver's seat (me) who wanted nothing more than hot soup, a hot shower, and an electric blanket turned on "high."

The little critter was waiting for us, held in the arms of the breeder, who needed only to give us our "survival package" of papers, instructions, etc., and a bag of dog food that likely would have crushed the little tyke had he the misfortune to be under it when it was loaded in the car.  While the family oohed and aahed every six seconds, I was paying more attention to whether the Villager was capable of staying afloat in the ever deepening Virginia mud and thereby seriously delay my much needed hot soup.

We escaped the muck and sped home, my eyes doggedly (may I use that term?) staring at the sleet on the road and half wondering if the puppy, who was running loose in the van I might add, might try to further endear himself to me by putting himself between my foot and the brake pedal.  Fortunately, he fell asleep on Jesse's lap.

We pulled into the driveway and everyone but me went giggling (and still oohing and aahing) into the house.  I was left to care for the Villager out there in the sleet (and here it was that while I thought they were so glad to see me I was taking a poor second to a furball).  When I joined the others, they were hovering around the puppy's bowl watching him inhale the food that had just been poured for him as if he might just utter something truly profound.  Watching his less than elegant dining style, Alex blurted out, "Let's call him Hoover."  Alas, there is some history here you should know.  For the past few years, my children have affectionately nicknamed me "Hoover" because of what they perceive to be my inclination to scarf down all visible food in seconds.  To them, this perceived trait is reminiscent of a vacuum cleaner, and thus the name "Hoover."  You can understand, then, my ambivalence about this name.  On the one hand, isn't it sweet that one's children should think of their father when naming a pet that is so dear to them.  On the other hand, to be reminded so continuously of such an unattractive behavioral trait (as perceived by the children, and not me, of course) was not exactly the kind of tribute I might have suggested.  Nevertheless, the name stuck as if it had been waiting all along for us dummies to discover how obvious it was.  And, so now we have a "Hoover" in the household.

Apart from the pee and poop watch, which in my old fashioned way I thought to be THE most important thing to be monitoring in these tender new moments, the more popular notion of what was the most pressing issue was how this waddling/loping cherub with the size eleven feet would feel  about the house's venerable, long-standing four legged denizen, Spoon, our Siamese cat.  While I had been warning Spoon for weeks about the upcoming invasion, he apparently had not taken me seriously.  He heard the voices of his beloved family in the kitchen and naturally came sauntering down the stairs with his usual self confidence and sang froid expecting to capture the limelight.  He took about four steps into the kitchen and then froze as if he had just been spotted by Godzilla.  His tail  immediately blossomed outward to heretofore unknown dimensions and he just stared in what I can only characterize as disbelief at the presence of this ravenous dark brown dog with the inelegant table manners.

Wasting no time, Spoon started his own peculiar brand of warbling and yowling that we have long known to be sure-fire signs of extreme agitation and anxiety.  The frantic back peddling was now underway, but not quickly enough.  Hoover had by now emptied his bowl and looked up for the first time, saw Spoon, and (I presume) judged him to be a playmate.  With a lurch and a waddle and some skids on the smooth kitchen floor, he bounded off to seek the now quickly retreating Spoon and, amazingly enough, caught him near the bottom of the steps going upstairs.  I think, frankly, Spoon was in shock because had he any grip on reality Hoover could certainly never have overtaken him.  But, overtake him he did.  Not having been fully weaned on matters of social etiquette, Hoover introduced himself to Spoon by nibbling not so gingerly on the distressed feline's left ear.  Spoon, as you might imagine, did not take kindly to this show of affection since in the fourteen years he lived with fellow Siamese Cosmo he always resisted her attempts to do  the same thing and she, after all, was at least of the same species.  Spoon quickly regained his senses, and rocketed out of reach heading up the stairs wailing like a banshee in what must have been as close to a nervous breakdown as Siamese are apt to get.  His wails did not subside for some time notwithstanding our noble efforts to convince him that the sky, in fact, was not falling and that he would live to see another day.

I am reasonably certain that Pavlov would smile knowingly if he were able to observe my behavior now that Hoover has been with us for several days.  Whereas once I would walk from one place to another with my head up, I now dare not move without my gaze fixed upon the floor around my feet.  It is rapidly becoming a reflex, so much so that I find myself doing it occasionally at work.  There are two reasons for this.  First, Hoover has established the astonishing ability to follow me more closely than my shadow.  He might as well be attached to me by velcro.  When I move, he moves.  When I stop, he stops.  Normally, if I am in a stopped position, his head is either lying on my foot or he is consumed by the urgent need to ingest my shoelaces before I move on.  This is not wholly relaxing to me.  Second, this dog is clearly relishing the challenge to have me step into the pee and poop that he so fondly dispenses without warning.  I swear he's keeping score.  (He probably thinks that if he can get me to step in "it" enough times he will be awarded the prize of having Spoon locked up with him in his crate some night.)  So, now you can understand my now rather hesitant walking style.

As if to ensure that my bonding process with Hoover went unimpeded, Aunt Betsy turned around after the weekend and left on business for Seattle.  That has left me to deal mano a mano with this incorrigible animal who more and more reminds me in style and appearance of a young brown bear.  For something his size, he's so dense, so heavy!  He makes Spoon appear as if he is made of papier mache.  Jesse has really been magnificent so far in assuming responsibility for periodic daily walks, and some poop removal, although unfortunately Hoover has bent over backwards to be fair in pooping with equal aplomb both inside and outside the house.  Also, unfortunately, the boys are absolutely intimidated --yes, intimidated -- by Hoover's razor sharp teeth which, I am quite confident, are at least as effective a dicing and shredding device as our cuisinart.  When Hoover is hell bent on playing, which seems to be all of his waking moments, he signals his desires by sinking his teeth into whatever parts of the anatomy are within range.  Normally, this would be the toes, but wrists, fingers and groins are equally acceptable.  As a result, when Hoover is on a rampage of dashing, leaping and bouncing wildly off unsuspecting furniture, Jesse and Alex take off for the proverbial hills by leaping to safety  on the tops of couches or chairs like the traditional cartoon ladies "eeking" at the presence of a mouse.  This is not particularly manly behavior, and I do believe it might give Hoover the mistaken idea of who's in charge.  I need to toughen these guys up.  They will probably get better at this as long as I outfit them with suits of armor and shark repellant.

I'm getting some measure of revenge this weekend when we are expected to get about a foot of snow.  I can't wait to say, "Hooover, let's go out."  Whereupon he will unsuspectingly leap out the door and probably sink into a sea of cold white stuff.  The problem is that he will probably poop in there somewhere leaving it to us to step  in it when we least expect it.

Time marches on and we now find ourselves living with a 4 month old animal that is half the size of Danny DeVito.  There is a certain sense of urgency to both tame the beast before he calls the shots, and to housebreak him before the not so little reminders of his lack of discipline simply overpower all but the smelling impaired.  I think we knew we were in trouble when the vet betrayed us, albeit unwittingly.  First, he advised us a few weeks ago that Hoover was going to  be a very large dog, no doubt on the basis that Hoover's feet looked like they might fit quite nicely into Andre the Giant's hiking boots.  This news, to my mind, was not exactly like hearing that we had won the lottery.  As if this wasn't bad enough, Aunt Betsy was advised on her last visit to the vet that he had just given his chocolate lab away!!  He said that chocolate labs were too hard to handle!!  Can you imagine?  This from a veterinarian!?  Well, where exactly does that leave us Dr. Murnan, now that you've given up?  Maybe we should rename Hoover "Chernobyl" in anticipation of future disasters.

I'll just list for you some of our recent "adventures."

1.  We used to have some lovely daffodils in the front yard that symbolically trumpeted the arrival of Spring.  It took Hoover about 37 seconds from the first moment he discovered them to deftly separate the flowers from their stems.  The bright yellow of the daffodils protruding from his mouth against the dark brown of his fur made for quite a stunning color statement.  Actually, his eating style is rather reminiscent of the way that Jesse eats broccoli where he reluctantly eats the very tops of the vegetable and leaves the rest absolutely untouched.  

A few days ago, I did my annual "move the plants from the living room to the deck" thing without thinking that this would be the first year the plants might actually be in mortal danger other than my forgetting to water them.  In light of our daffodil experience, I might have anticipated events a little better.  No sooner had I dragged the plants out to the deck when Hoover, giddy at seeing his new prey, launched his opening salvo at the potted palm.  He did rather well, neatly severing what had moments earlier been one of the palm's more promising shoots.  When I screamed my displeasure, Hoover froze.  His innocent eyes were betrayed, however, by a mass of green sticking out of the side of his mouth.  Now sensing his own mortality, I suppose, he raced for cover first around the deck and then the kitchen.  Apparently finding none, he literally dove into his crate thinking (if, in fact, that's actually what he does) he was safe.  The epilogue to this adventure is that we have sprinkled generous amounts of tabasco sauce on the leaves of the plants.  This gives the plants either a somewhat bizarre Christmasy look, or the look of a dread tropical disease -- I'm not sure which.  Now, should Hoover have the urge to play tree surgeon he pays a price which, I must confess, gives me a perverse delight.  Should he chomp down on one of the bespeckled leaves, he screws up his face just like a young child that has taken his first bite of lemon.  Knowing his adaptability, however, he'll  probably be seeking out the bloody mary mix any day now.

2.  Several weeks ago, I was sitting in the kitchen engrossed in something, when I happened to look over at Hoover to see him noshing on the cork of an unopened bottle of champagne.  He had managed to slide the bottle off the wine rack with that famous hunting dog soft mouth, and was now beyond the silver foil covering well into the cork when I spotted the little devil.  When I screamed at him, fully expecting a foamy eruption at any moment, he must have been completely confused since he surely figured this to be just another chew toy which otherwise we are always foisting on him.  Looking back on the episode, I should really have let him bring his efforts to fruition with the hope that he might learn a lesson.  Can you imagine his surprise if the cork blew and he was showered by Korbel's finest?  By the way, our wine rack is now not only empty (with the former contents relegated to the pantry), but is actually turned around and facing the wall so that Hoover might cease in doing his termite imitation on the much gnawed upon wood shelves.

3.  Hoover has taken to deftly, even surgically you might say, lifting plates out of the dishwasher and using them to re-enact his version of the 1981 Stanley Cup playoffs.  Using his front paw and nose, he pushes the plate somewhat chaotically around the kitchen floor much like a hockey puck making full use of caroms off baseboards and ankles.  Actually, he just seems to like licking water droplets off the plates and, at the moment, this technique seems to work for him.  He has a penchant as well to lift freshly washed spoons or forks out of the dishwasher, but doesn't get too far with these playthings before he's tackled.  If he keeps this up I will personally sentence him to watching Garfield reruns.

4.  Obedience school.  He's begun, and even though many people believe a 4 month old lab is too young for this sort of thing, we have categorically rejected this theory since our sanity, after all, depends on it.  When Aunt Betsy first told me about this school, I fondly imagined a place where the person in charge would be like Arnold Schwartznegger, only stronger.  He would whip these four-legged crazies into shape in no time and we have a model, if somewhat traumatized, dog in our midst.  Well, that's not exactly what's happening.  For example, the lady in charge has suggested that the way to get Hoover to stop biting is to say "ouch" very loudly when he chomps down on our fingers, toes, or other extremities.  This struck me as somewhat foolish since we had been doing this for weeks -- not as a training device, mind you, but as a reaction to intense physical pain -- without a great deal of success.  School is at the same place where Hoover goes to doggy daycare.  What, you've never heard of this?  This is the ultimate in yuppiness humiliation.  Taking your dog someplace where they have playtime, nap time just like the real kids do.  Hoover has found happiness in frolicking with another chocolate lab ("Hershey"), and, I must say, generally comes home relatively exhausted.  This is a good thing.  It is gradually lessening Hoover's resemblance to a car whose gas pedal is nailed to the floor.

5.  While Hoover's overall demeanor is definitely becoming more mellow, his attempts to learn that the house ought not be his personal bathroom is coming along as rapidly as the next ice age.  The same people who recommended saying "ouch" when we are bitten, also suggested that we get rid of the paper on our kitchen floor and replace it with a pool of bark chips.  At first, I thought this might be a stroke of genius.  Apart from the fact that this is what they use at doggy daycare (thus, continuity might be possible here), I confess I was tiring of the paper routine.  We were getting to the point that if Hoover even got close to the paper, we would lavish praise on him.  Actually hitting the paper would be met with an avalanche of dog treats.  Hitting the paper twice in a row, a feat not yet witnessed by anyone I know, would likely get him a night out with Spoon.  Bark chips, we were told, would more closely approximate the soil and encourage the transition to the great outdoors whenever nature called.  Sounds good, right?  What they failed to tell us was that by dumping a considerable amount of mulch in our kitchen (in a cutesy little plastic pool we got at Toys R Us), our kitchen would have the same malodorous stench of a fetid barnyard.  No amount of room deodorizer can match or mask this smell.  So now, when we get past the mulch in the front yard, we can come into the house and think we never left the front yard.  They smell about the same.

Hoover's reaction to this is not quite what we hoped or anticipated.  As far as he was concerned, this pool was a veritable bonanza of munchies.  Much of the mulch was the size of dog biscuits and to Hoover, who has about the same refined sense of taste as the appliance for which he is named, this was like a gift from the doggy god.  He can now be found grazing to his heart's content on this endless mound of wood fiber.  This would not be so bad if he confined his efforts to the pool.  As it happens, he seems more content to plop down at assorted locations around the kitchen bringing with him a half hour supply of fibrous treats.

6.  Lastly, you know how people like to register their dogs with the AKC with the most exotic names:  Chauncey's Cherubic Joy of Glenacre Farms, Jocyln's Juggernaut of Murryhill  Estates, Sir Boynton's Elegant Surprise, etc., etc.  Aunt Betsy decided it was time to do the same for our dog, and so she filled out the requisite application.  When it came time to the 400 spaces in which owners are to put in their pet's formal name, Aunt Betsy, without too much hesitation, calmly wrote "The Hoover."  Hero of the working masses, I say.

A Message From Paris

I confess I had my share of misgivings.  I mean, how could I not?  The daily drumbeat of concerning, if not scary, news about the Covid crisis, and in particular, the precautions we were all to  take, helped mold how we viewed life in these times.  At times, the physical awareness of surrounding potential threats has driven the narrative of our daily lives.  But, beyond that, the emotional  impact of this reality has been the most scarring.  While most of us have found paths to happiness and serenity, there is always the existential knock at the door to remind us of the dangers that we face.  For Lily and me these warnings were not just abstractions with both of us having suffered our own bouts with Covid.

So, when a return to Paris became not just a dream but a reality, all the glass is half empty instincts this period has imposed on me came to  the surface.  Could we get the delta variant again?  What about all the travel restrictions to France that seemed to change every seven minutes?  How certain can we be that we won't be facing a quarantine when we arrive killing the trip altogether?  How careful are Parisians being in their daily routines?  And, on and on and on.

I must be quick to say that Lily was less concerned than I was.  After all, as I have told many, Paris is the number one love in her life.  I like to think I'm in the top three, but Paris is el primo.  We have been coming here together every year (except last year), Lily for a month me for two weeks.  Inspired by her joyous year abroad here back in her college days, Paris is not just a desirable option, but an unnegotiable imperative.

And now we're here.  And, what an eye opener it has been!  No psychiatrist or therapist would have had a better shot at calming our fears than being here enmeshed in the Paris experience.  How do  I begin?

It would be unfair to start anywhere but with the people.  As always, when I'm sitting in a park or at a cafe, I can't help but notice the pleasure they are feeling.  Whether it's strolling with a spouse or friend or a scampering child or two, their smiles appear much more often than their frowns.  No one appears to be in a hurry.  At the Jardin du Luxembourg -- at least on this Sunday -- the manmade pond at its heart is once again ablaze with the little sailboats all captained by energetic kids running around its boundaries.  Even the resident ducks have had to alter their paths to avoid a collision with the boats.  In other words, there is that energy and buoyancy we so associate with this city.  On the weekends when the Jardin is quite full, the calm chatter I hear is like the music one might play to help a child sleep.  It obviously influences those laying back in their chairs either totally at peace and relaxed or outright dozing in the September sun.  

As if to certify the relaxing vibe here, I need not look any further than the pigeons.  Are they nervous?  Are they stressed?  Hell no!  They are so comfortable hanging around my feet as I sit in the park, literally inches from my toes, that their ease and their confidence makes me smile and echoes the positivity I see all around me.  Yes, I know they are looking for something edible, but they are so fearless and comfortable amid everyone's lounging that they are unwittingly encouraging you to feel  the same way.  As I experience this, I really do expect one or more of these guys to hop onto my knee and tilt its head looking at me as if to ask, "dude, where's my snack, s'il vous plait?"

Apart from here, it oftentimes is just the watching of the joyful interactions in the street markets with the wine guy, or the cheese guy or the fruit guy and their patrons.  Or the intoxicating aromas coming from the patisseries.  Amidst all  this, the street musicians give it all a lovely soundtrack.  And, the locals' attire?  Nothing has changed.  The wildly colorful tops and bottoms, the elegant footwear and, even in this warm weather, the occasional suaveness of the scarves.  Or, on Sunday mornings, it is hard not to smile at the glee and good humor of the folks at the base of Rue Moufftard who are gathering at the square to start dancing once the local street musician gets his instruments warmed up.

Walking the streets here and, in particular, walking seemingly within inches of folks dining at the endless array of outdoor cafes, has given me a refresher course in the endless tableau of tasty food options every one of which makes me ridiculously hungry.  The crepes, the croissants, the tapas, the beef tartare, the dumplings the chocolates, the gelato are all so close to me it is all I can do to not lean over and ask for a bite!  (Okay, okay I guess I should have eaten a bigger breakfast.  I get it.  But still...!)  Being in Paris means never having to worry about finding something for dinner.  The dilemma comes only when you have to choose that evening's culinary path.

To put this all another way, time feels like it's standing still here.  In a good way.  My fears have been calmed, my optimism has returned, and the cafe creme in front of me beckons.  As I sit here at a cafe off Boulevard Saint-Michel, my seat is just a few feet from a number of surging fountains whose calming sounds may lead my way to those I have just observed at the Jardin du Luxembourg in a comforting doze.

Bon soir!

The Beauty of Friendship

In the human experience, what is it we value most?  Family and the power of love come to mind at first blush, but as incredibly significant as these factors are, it seems that what follows closely behind is the experience of friendship.  With family, for better or for worse,  we are not really presented with a choice.  Our parents, siblings, cousins and grandparents are automatically entwined with our lives which is almost always a wonderful thing.  But, not always.  As they say, we don't get to choose our family.  But, friendship offers another path to happiness.  Part of the beauty of friendship is that we get to choose those who we want to call a friend.  So often what forms that bond is shared experience and perhaps a set of shared values.  And, what follows are those indelible moments of shared laughter, compassion and joy that helps enrich our lives like almost nothing else.  

I am happy to say that what I have described above is exactly what we have experienced with our dear friends, Janie and Gordy.  It started years ago when Lily and I were new to the Wild Dunes community and we were hoping to spread our wings to expand our social circle since when we moved down here we knew no one and had left behind a lifetime of family and friends.  We had joined the local yacht club -- even though we had no boat -- and looked for an opportunity to join the club on a sail down to Beaufort.  We reached out to the club to see if anyone would take us on with them and lo and behold we heard from Janie and Gordy and their friends Rick and Gail inviting us to ride with them aboard the Finlaggan, Janie and Gordy's boat.  Looking back, it seems like it didn't take more than twelve seconds on board to realize we were going to have a great time.  The laughter and good times started almost immediately as we learned about each other's lives as well as our strengths and foibles.  We knew we had made new friends.  Perfect.

We flash forward to a couple of years ago when the four of us and our dear friend, Maggie, ventured to the south coast of England where our shared experience there further strengthened the already strong bond that we had.  Through all our shared meals, our B&B stays, card games, and the sometime terror of navigating the crazily narrow roads of the countryside from the left side of the road, the trip proved to be a classic example of what friendship can provide: joy, laughter, important and unimportant conversations and, in the end, happiness.

Now, here we are in 2021 and Janie and Gordy have left the local scene.  They have decided to leave Wild Dunes and move to Greenville to simplify their lives and be closer to family.  A wonderful move for them, but one that created some sad moments for those of us staying here knowing that our friendship would take on a different tone, a new strategy.  A new challenge, you might say.  But, Lily and I have no doubts our bonds will stay as strong as they have ever been.

And, so it was only appropriate that in anticipation of their departure, we send them off in style with our wonderful friends, Mark and Becky, who have so clearly enjoyed their own introduction to Janie and Gordy and who have developed their own friendship with them as well.  It started  with a wonderful dinner at The Obstinate Daughter, seated at a round table -- perfect for a group conversation and shared laughs. I have a feeling the laughter may have been enhanced a bit by the steady flow of martinis, wine, beer, and designer cocktails.  But, that's just my opinion.

Best of all, though, was one final session of "Oh Hell" at Mark and Becky's house after dinner, a weekly tradition all of us had strongly embraced for some time.  For those of you unfamiliar with this tortuously funny card game, let's just say it is a game where the best strategies are often crushed, where bidding on the number of tricks you think you can take are often wildly inaccurate, and where certain plays are often accompanied by loud squeals of both delight and exasperation.  While I cannot solely attribute this to the whims of alcohol, it seems like every seven seconds someone is asking, "what did I bid??"  While we all strive to win, the joy lies in the comedy wrought by the all but certain ups and downs and the sardonic pleasure of seeing your playmates' miscalculations vividly on display.  It doesn't hurt that at the midpoint of each of these games we take a time out and dive into dessert which on this night -- courtesy of Mark  and Becky -- was a scrumptious homemade key lime pie featuring a crust that will surely be recommended for sainthood it was so good.  (Although, interestingly, it appears the pie was, in part, the product of a brain fart in which the pie was supposed to be cooked for 15 minutes but ended up cooking for twice that long since the oven timer -- which had been set for 15 minutes -- said the same thing 30 minutes later since neither Mark nor Becky had remembered to actually activate the damn thing.  But, I'm telling you, this proved to be perhaps one of the best, most tasty brain farts ever!)

Once seated again with cards in our hands, the laughs reached epic highs.  I use that last term somewhat on purpose since Lily was in a sort of  altered state herself.  Herbed up, some might say.  She had just returned from the bathroom where she had experienced one of those Japanese style bidet-like toilets that offer interesting alternatives to toilet paper.  You know, like the rocket-like streaming of water to parts underneath.  Well...Lily's description of this experience would have been achingly funny enough just listening to her words.  But, her words were laced with with so much of her own laughter coupled with the kind of tears that can only be produced by one's total immersion in the humor of their own story that the story telling experience morphed into one of the funniest moments in modern history.  Seriously.

This evening, with all its culinary and beverage delights plus the animated conversation and laughter plus the engagement in what has become one of our favorite games is what friends provide and magnify.  So wonderful to share this last evening in town with folks who enrich our lives.

We will see you soon, Janie and Gordy!  Keep the cards handy!

With One Bite...

Vivid memories can be triggered by so many things, can't they?  A random thought, a conversation with a family member or a good friend.  Or, sometimes, they can be triggered by the senses, like a piece of music or a long forgotten fragrance or aroma.  Or, perhaps, a familiar sight not seen in many years.

For me, though, my mind zoomed back decades not by any of these stimuli, but by my taste buds.  With one bite, actually. We were out in San Diego visiting Alex, Katie and baby Owen when one morning I found myself driving Katie to a doctor's appointment.  Katie had broken her ankle some weeks before and couldn't drive and I was happy to take on the job.  When dropping her off, she suggested I might kill some time at a Jewish deli a few blocks down the street -- a place called D.Z. Akin's.  Excellent idea, I thought.

I entered the mostly empty restaurant and sat in a booth beginning to peruse the menu.  Frankly, I was expecting to order a bagel and lox.  I mean, how can you not do that at a Jewish deli at breakfast time?  But, as I gazed at the menu, I could not stop staring at one item: the potato knish.  For those of you not familiar with this Eastern European culinary tidbit, imagine a filo dough stuffed with a seasoned mashed potato that's been baked to a crispy, hot, melt-in-your-mouth definition of comfort food.  I knew I had to order this notwithstanding the fact that I hadn't tasted one in about sixty-five years, and I'll tell you why.

When I was a child, we lived in White Plains, New York, a Westchester suburb of New York City.  Back then, my grandfather -- my father's father -- lived in a home for the aged in Brooklyn along the boardwalk at Coney Island.  From time to time, we would get in the car and drive to Brooklyn to visit grandpa.  I have to admit these visits were not my favorite outings.  First, the road trips were long and boring.  More importantly, while grandpa was most definitely a sweet man, communications with him were most difficult.  He spoke very little English; Yiddish was his language of choice.  Plus back then I was hopelessly shy and any effort at conversation by me with any adult was a challenge seldom overcome.  The seemingly endless conversations between my father and grandpa were entirely in Yiddish which I understood as much as the squawking of the birds outside on the boardwalk.  So -- I would sit there numbly squished between my father and my grandpa listening to words I did not understand, staring at old people who in my youthfulness all seemed like they were four hundred years old, wishing only for my exit visa.

At some point, my father would arise and declare the visit to be over and offered to go for a walk along the boardwalk.  Freedom!!  Getting out into the warming sun, feeling the sea breeze, watching the swooping seagulls, and watching other families enjoy the same panorama was hugely rewarding and more than made up for the almost claustrophobic-like feelings I had experienced earlier being trapped among the ancient beings where grandpa lived.  But, the best was yet to come.

As we strolled up the boardwalk, we would always stop at a small eatery that offered, among other treats, knishes of all stripes.  I only remember the one stuffed with kasha, which is like a buckwheat or barley filling.  And,  of course, the potato, my favorite.  After experiencing the high of the boardwalk stroll, the potato knish brought it all home, so to speak.  It finished the outing on a perfect note.

So, when the waitress brought my knish to my table in San Diego, I could only stare at it for a few moments and smile.  This was not just a snack.  For me, I was staring at history coming to life.  And then I took a bite.  As I bit through the crunch of the covering dough and sank my teeth into the savory warmth of the seasoned potatoes, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to travel back through time, through all those decades back to Brooklyn, back to those moments of happiness when the sun and sea air surrounded me and gave me a taste I will never forget.  All with one bite.

The Undoing of History

We tend to think of history as something that happens somewhere else, to someone else. To be sure, we feel deeply affected by worldly events no matter how far away they may occur, but history is, for the most  part, something we unconsciously reserve to history books.  We read about historical events and try to envision what it must have been like to be there, but notwithstanding our best efforts, we are dealing in abstractions here, not gut wrenching realities.  Even with respect to current day events, we learn what we know through the TV screen or other forms of mass media.  The images on the screen definitely bring these events to life in a way that no printed word can, but even here as you sit in the comfort of your home the reality of this history -- the feel, the smell, the immediacy of it -- are still several steps removed.

That all changed for Alex and me a couple of weeks ago in Paris.  It was early evening and, as had had become our new pattern, Alex, Katie and Owen had settled in for a break at the apartment just as Lily and I had in our hotel room, all awaiting a meeting up for dinner once Owen fell asleep.  But then Alex got in touch with me sending me urgent images of a cathedral on fire.  To be honest, these images which were from a newsfeed, at first did not resonate with me.  But, suddenly I realized these were images of the cathedral of Notre Dame.  And, yet even in those moments I was somehow doubtful of their truthfulness.  But Alex said he would be by in five minutes and said we had to go and witness this.  I agreed.

When I went down to the hotel lobby, the desk clerk was unaware of the event.  When I mentioned it to him, he frowned and tilted his head in disbelief but then did a quick search on his computer.  When the images came up on his screen, he gasped and his hands went to his mouth in a pure statement of shock.  Alex appeared and we took off.

As we raced through the narrow streets of the Left Bank and peered into bars along the way, the TVs were all blaring the news of the fire.  But, here's where the reality set in.  Navigating the narrow streets and heading downhill, the sky was filled with billowing smoke and then, depending on a break in the skyline of the buildings in front of us, the hot orange of flames shooting skyward could be seen.  It looked like the whole city was on fire just blocks away.  The crowds thickened and soon it became a lava flow as everyone headed for the river.  The stress was palpable and contagious among the crowds the closer we got to ground zero.

As we neared the river, we could now see in full view the cathedral in flames.  In my life I had never seen flames so large, so high, so sweeping.  They were at least thirty to forty feet high and massive in width.  They stretched from the back side of the magnificent two front towers to the rear section of the cathedral and its now dearly threatened spire wholly engulfed in flames licking at its very existence.  Helicopters would occasionally swoop by.  Sirens were the constant soundtrack.  Police would be feverishly yelling at people to stand back in efforts to control the lava flow of the many, like Alex and me, wanting or needing to witness history.  The gridlocked cars had windows opened, passengers with jaws agape or cameras flashing.  The crowds were universally dumbstruck by what they were witnessing.  And, many were either openly crying or quietly wiping away tears that just wouldn't stop.

As I stared in bewilderment, I kept wondering where were the fire fighters?  All I saw were two streams of water, one near the front, the other near the back of the cathedral which seemed so utterly inadequate in the face of what might not unfairly be described as an Armageddon-like expression of fire.  I expected helicopters dousing water from  above and boats gorging water from  the river.  In the panic we were all  feeling in those moments, we wanted water coming from every possible source and from every possible direction.  No effort seemed sufficient.

The mammoth flames had now devoured enough of the roof to not only tumble the cathedral's beautiful spire, but to fully expose the skeletal timbers of the building's roof.  All exposed, they were nothing now but mere kindling to some demonic bonfire and we knew it would only be moments before the entire roof collapsed.  But, when it happened it was stunning.   In a moment the roof was gone and it was only a question of where the flames would turn to feed their unending appetite.  The gasps and moans from the crowd were penetrating to anyone with a soul.

It was just ninety minutes earlier that we had been finishing up our day's explorations when we decided to take a run past Notre Dame.  Lily decided to take the stroller and sit in the small but fabulously charming park behind the cathedral while Katie, Alex, Owen and I walked an encircling route around the building taking in the towers, smiling at the gargoyles, dodging the long lines but, as always, taking in an iconic bit of world history.  I mean, here is a building that has been with us for close to nine centuries surviving every monstrous act of man and nature that has dotted human history all these centuries.  It is part of the reason that Notre Dame is such a world renowned landmark.  And yet here it was, in front of our eyes, its existence actually threatened.  In those moments, it felt like the undoing of history.

So, this is what experiencing history in the most real sense feels like.  I cannot say that I physically felt the heat of those flames, but emotionally I most surely did.

Chaos x 2 = Nirvana

Chaos is a term we tend to throw around rather loosely.  Even thoughtlessly, you might say.  Just like I'm going to do right now. Normally, we use the term chaos to describe pandemonium or complete dishevelment, a situation so removed from our usual norms that we're at a loss as to how to cope with it.  Lord knows, we can all conjure up situations around the globe that give chaos its truest meaning, and I know you know what I mean.  But, in our own, mostly controlled, lives we very liberally call upon the term chaos to help describe hiccups in our normal life rhythms, although some hiccups are louder and more disruptive than others.

Lily and I are witnessing first-hand a world gone mad, or, as I've suggested, chaos, having visited the world of Jesse and Laura.  Here are two absolutely wonderful people -- our older son and daughter-in-law -- who have been living fabulous lives and whose careers have taken them from Denver to Quito to Mexico City.  Living the dream some might say.  But, on December 19 they were presented with new additions to their lives, twin sons Oliver and Charlie!  Yes, having children is something billions of us go through and not just survive but feel that it thoroughly embellishes our lives.  It surely provides us with an unmatchable lifetime experience.  But twins?  Well...that poses a whole set of challenges most folks never have to face, doesn't it?

It's been decades, of course, since Lily and I had to deal with the dramatic nuances and roller coaster adventures of being parents for the first time.  But, having been introduced to grandparenthood for the first time four months ago courtesy of Katie and Alex, those moments of drama, and more importantly, the stresses and rollicking emotions of those early experiences were re-awakened through baby Owen's introduction to life on planet earth.  And, with Owen, we witnessed the dislocation of the otherwise established rhythms of daily living to which Alex and Katie had grown so accustomed.  You know, the sleep deprivation, the diaper changing, the seemingly endless demands for new supplies and equipment, the disruption of work schedules.  And, did I mention sleep deprivation?

So, the chaos (again, if I may use that term) that greets new parents has fondly reached out to Laura and Jesse.  In spades.  Let's start with the most obvious challenge:  who is who?  During the term of the pregnancy, Laura and Jesse regularly referred to "baby A" and "baby B."  Not that they were abstractions, mind you.  It's just that there was no  need to tell them apart.  But, once having entered the world, all that has changed.  And, remember, Oliver and Charlie are identical!  Before leaving the hospital, they had the wisdom to paint a couple of Oliver's toenails red which was a great way to distinguish the two little guys.  However, 98% of the time the two of them are all swaddled up or, at a minimum, wearing socks, so you can never see their feet!  They also had different colored knit caps for each of them but that pattern quickly got messed up as Oliver and Charlie got whatever cap was within arm's reach.

Okay then, so when you're holding one of the babies in your arms and you say, "how YOU doin'?" you really can't be all that certain who you're talking to.  Even with Oliver and Charlie passing the one month landmark, both parents not infrequently would not be sure who they were holding.  Charlie's head is a bit longer from front to back, but since most of the time the two boys are wearing knit caps that clue isn't all that helpful.  Lily believed she saw discernible nuances in a curve in Charlie's nose and a wrinkle in his ear, and she was often right in her identifying guesses.  But...not always.  I can't wait to see how this mini-drama develops.

Then there's the challenge of keeping the little guys on the same schedule.  You have to do this since the alternative means being deprived of any sleep for perhaps the next two years.  Not really tenable, right?  In the case of Oliver and Charlie, this means getting the little guys up every three hours to feed them regardless of whether they may think of themselves as being hungry or not.  During daylight hours this may not seem like an overwhelming burden, but at night?  Every night?  And, of course, it's not just a matter of awakening the little sleepers and sticking a bottle in their adorable mouths.  Oh no.  There's the associated burping, soothing, applications of the burp rag, and, naturally, the diaper changing (which, judging from their most vociferous screams, do not appear to be either Oliver or Charlie's favorite pastimes).  Then there's the bathing which brings out the kind of baby screams that can likely be heard in the next zip code.  And, for poor Laura, she must add into this ritual time for the regular pumping of breast milk.  What fun!

But, just when you think you've hit your limit and exhaustion is about to declare victory, there are these amazing moments of calm.  The calm within the chaos.  It is in these moments that the nirvana of it all can be seen and felt.  Often, these occur while the boys are feeding or in the moments immediately following.  They are at peace and so are you.  It is then that you have the luxury of taking that deep breath and staring at their tiny but gorgeously precise features.  Remember, these babies are preemies so whatever image you have of newborns back them up a few weeks.  What you have are facial features, for example, that are exquisitely perfect but absolutely miniature in dimension.  I know that I have never seen such small noses or eyelids, or such divinely pursed lips.  Their fingers are so tiny that if the fingers of one hand could be stretched wide I doubt they could span the width of two piano keys.  And, their toes seem like nothing more than adorable afterthoughts.

So, yes, there is much "chaos" at play here if I may use that term loosely.  But, for the most part, it is a quiet chaos if that makes any sense.  And, what a grand way to start a new stage in one's life!

Here's to Laura and Jesse!  And, here's to Oliver and Charlie!

And Along Came Owen

As any parent will tell you, the moment your child is born is like no other in your life.  I mean, think of it.  You have created a life.  It is one of the few abilities that all humans -- no matter what their station in life or where they live or what their belief system might be -- share.  And, while our lives are hopefully filled with an array of amazing adventures and colorful memories, there is nothing quite like being there at the moment your son or daughter arrives on planet earth and you are introduced for the first time.

In our case, the arrivals of Jesse and Alex are forever emblazoned in Lily's memory and mine although, obviously, from radically different perspectives.  With Jesse, the drama was intense.  Not only was this our first experience, but Jesse made a lasting impression by putting his mom through the ringer with a most stressful and rigorous labor experience.  It turns out he decided to twist his body upside down at the last minute complicating delivery options, increasing pain levels for Lily and producing a meteoric rise in stress levels for his father as I helplessly looked on.  I do vividly remember the hospital staff hurriedly whisking Lily down to the delivery room as I stumbled behind them ever so awkwardly trying to put on the surgical slippers over my flip flops as I frantically hopped down the hall trying to keep up with them.  But when the delivery had concluded and when they handed Jesse to me to hold, and I gazed into that little face, there was no way to hold back the tears.  There is no way to define the specialness of these moments or to adequately convey the depth of emotions that course through your veins.

With Alex, on the other hand, the labor and delivery were clearly choreographed by Walt Disney, I am quite certain.  It was painless; it was peaceful.  It was on schedule.  I even had an opportunity to go to the cafeteria to get some breakfast!  And, importantly, Lily's memories are not clouded by pain or stress.  Once again, though, those first moments of holding Alex in my arms transcend everything.  In those moments, the world stops spinning; there is nothing else happening.  All that life is, all that it embraces, is staring right back at you, this little life you have created.  Amazing.  Overpowering.  There are no other words for it.

We flash forward now more than three decades.  While parenting never ends, grandparenting is about to begin.  We have been anxiously awaiting the arrival of Alex and Katie's baby for months, and the time has come for us to visit and receive our formal introductions to our first grandchild.  We now know his name to be Owen Michael Golland.  Yes, that's OMG!  As we take a seat on the living room couch, Katie hands Owen to Lily who cradles him in her arms while I gurgle some over the top emotional words that I'm sure made no sense as I take a spot right next to Lily.  Both Lily and I start talking to Owen as if he's already quite conversant in English.  When I get to hold Owen, I immediately tell him that over the next several days I'm going to tell him everything about his dad when he was a baby and beyond.  No, there won't be any secrets here.

But, there's something else at play here.  I realize it's the passage of time. As I stare into Owen's eyes, I feel like I'm looking at history.  My mind flashes back to  my parents and even my grandparents -- this chain of history that continues to unfold at a most personal level.  To put a somewhat different spin on it, I see a passing of the torch.  Here is the next generation, one that is likely to take us well into the next century.  And, as I think back to my grandparents, whose roots date back well into the 19th century, the passage of time takes on a whole new dimension, one so much bigger than me.  This perspective makes each of us seem so microscopic in significance.  And part of me wishes that my parents and grandparents were here to share this moment with me.  Oh well....much better to  live in the moment, I conclude.

Maybe it's just me but I find it hard to look at Owen and not project more mature, well developed thoughts and reactions in him as I closely watch his every squirm and twitch.  When he occasionally crinkles his nose or purses his lips, I can't help but wonder what he might be thinking.  As I watch his eyes dart back and forth behind closed eyelids and those barely perceptible eyelashes, it is impossible not to ask what is he seeing?  Is he dreaming?  If so, what could possibly be on his mind?  I mean, the little guy is only two weeks old.  The same goes for his smiles, at least in the early days after our arrival.  Is he actually pleased about something or is it just gas?

Then there's this issue with "the touch"?  I seriously doubt that I have originated that term here, but what I am referring to is the ability to calm a baby once he or she becomes agitated or, worse, flat out screaming unhappy.  It is undisputed that Katie has the touch.  She is the master of the touch.  When Owen gets beyond the second level of fussiness, Katie is there to magically and consistently bring serenity to the little guy.  It may take the form of soothing words or the right bouncing motions, or the right stroking or body positioning.  And, of course, feeding is always an option.  We're talking an art form here not a science.  If this were merely a function of arithmetic calculation, everyone would be good at it.  But, no.  Meme Lily, I must say, had an excellent touch.  Most excellent calming abilities.  And, new daddy, Alex, showed us his very impressive patience and equally impressive skills at using the large exercise ball to calmly bounce Owen into tranquility.  Poppy Jeff, on the other hand, uh...not so much.  Not that Owen would revolt whenever I would assume the babysitting duties.  No, not at all. Owen and I definitely had a number of extended periods of time where he would either sleep in my arms or, if he were awake, I would fill his ears with stories of Alex as a young child as I had promised when we first arrived.  But, when Owen did get fussy I cannot say I had "the touch" that Katie, Alex or Lily had to calm him down and bring him back to a calmer reality.  I would shift the way I held him.  I would endlessly stroke or pat him on the back.  I would walk him around the house.  I would bounce him on the big ball.  I wanted desperately for one of these techniques to work if only to allow Katie to get some richly deserved sleep which she otherwise only got in sporadic stretches of about two hours or so.  All the while I would whisper in a frenzy to Owen, "no, no, no, Owen.  Please, please let mommy sleep."  Not very effective.  I guess it's a good thing I could do the food shopping, cooking and dog walking.

As the days wore on, we could actually see Owen develop some.  Most memorably, as Owen's smiles developed,we knew them to be legitimate reflections of his happiness.  Whether it was the touch or voice of one of us, or a response to music, or his sheer joy of stretching out on the couch and testing out his churning legs, there was little doubt there were stimuli that made the little guy happy.  Think about it.  There are few things that can make you smile so instinctively as seeing your own grandchild smile.  I'm telling you, the kid is a charmer.  Even his burps and farts are charming.

Yeah, we're over the moon alright.  Isn't that where all grandparents belong?